The sweet and sour taste of four a.m,
when all that can be heard is deep breathing and slight rain.
I lay in a bed that no-one owns,
in a room perpetually cold,
and pretend that my endeavours to educate this blank piece of paper,
that doesn't actually exist in this physical plane,
are not in vain.
But in reality, does the few thousand words that try to define
how we translate cultural films over time,
actually matter?
I think not.
Because every few minutes I have to stop,
just to check that you're breathing, that your skin is still soft,
just to whisper better dreams in your ears.
I'd rather be asleep than sat here.
I'd rather be somewhere that does not exist.
I'd rather be driving down that road,
the one where the bluebells are just opening,
with absolutely no concept of tomorrow.